


True Fear

by Nopride4531



Category: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, brotherly bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'When they brought him in, Butch wasn't quite sure what to do; Sundance never got hurt, especially not this bad.'</p><p>A series of one-shots centering around Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Hurt/comfort, angst, tragedy. A lot of hurt!Sundance. Taking prompts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When they brought him in, Butch wasn't quite sure what to do; Sundance _never_  got hurt, especially not this bad.  So as he stood there in the doorway, one tan calloused hand clutching his hat in a death grip and the other resting against the frame of the bed, Butch suddenly knew what it was like to experience true fear.  He felt like he'd been stabbed in the chest with a dozen hooked knives that did more damage coming out than going in, felt like his heart had been ripped out, trampled, and then burned.  Nothing could have prepared him for this.  Nothing.  There was simply too much going on, too much to be done, and all of it too soon.  

Because, really, when your best friend—your brother, practically—was lying on the brink of death, the fear ate away at you like acid.  

The Kid was absolutely _covered_ in wounds, ranging anywhere from minor scrapes and bruises to deep gashes and—to Butch's horror—bullet holes.  Those were the worst, littering his legs like weeds: unwanted and out of control.  Thankfully, however, they seemed to have missed any major arteries, a miracle that was much appreciated, but a couple had struck bone and lodged themselves in there.  It had taken Doc Mitchell nearly an hour to pull them free and when he had, he discovered that they'd fractured the femurs and tibias of both legs in two places.  Butch had taken one look at the Doc's pale face and confirmed what he'd known from the start:

It was bad. Very bad.  Worse than anything he'd ever seen.  

At first, he hadn't known exactly _what_  he was seeing when Harvey and News had burst through the door of the small cabin, half carrying, half dragging a bloody Sundance between them.  He'd rushed forward to catch his friend before he could slip out of their grasp and crumple to the floor, hauling him over to the tiny, rickety bed that sat in the corner of the room.  He'd then rounded on the two standing men, demanding to know what had happened:

_"W-w-we were h-headin' out of town w-when sh-shots fired ou-out of nowhere!"_  News had exclaimed in a voice so weak and so terrified that Butch could hardly understand him.   _"H-h-he—"_

_"—He got the worst of it,"_  Harvey had finished in that deep, guttural voice of his, gesturing his head at Sundance.   _"S'like they were aimin' specifically for him."_

Butch had sensed his heart plummet into his stomach.   _"Get Doc Mitchell!"_  He'd barked, all but shoving News out the door.   _"Now!"_

To give the man credit, he'd brought the doctor in a matter of minutes: he'd luckily been close by, attending to a minor injury at a nearby farm, and had dropped everything to assist them.  When he'd arrived, he'd taken one look at Sundance and ordered everyone out of the cabin, except for Butch, who'd refused to leave.  Mitchell had reluctantly allowed him to stay, but simply because he needed help; he was an old man and wouldn't be able to hold the Kid down while he operated.  

_"Alright son,"_ he'd said calmly, pulling out a scalpel and a long pair of tweezers from his medical bag.   _"Find something for him to bite down on.  Can't have him making this worse than it already is."_    

In the end, they'd settled for an old belt that had been hanging off the edge of the bed.  There wasn't really much they could have done to prepare him for the operation, so in effect, it had been rather rushed and makeshift.  Right after Doc Mitchell had finished pulling the bullets out, they'd run out of stitches and had had to use some thread that was left over from an old quilt Etta had made.  And then, when it seemed like it couldn't get any worse, Sundance had slipped into shock.  It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to stabilize him again and then another thirty to make sure that he wouldn't relapse.  

When Mitchell was finally finished, the Kid looked like a patchwork quilt: bandages covered multiple areas of his body, white with crimson splotches, and two wooden boards served as temporary splints for his fractured legs.  The Doc had then stood back and washed his bloody hands, uneasily pleased with his work.  

_"Will..."_ Butch had begun shakily, casting a nervous glance over at his friend, _"will he be okay?"_

Mitchell hadn't looked at him while he spoke, but whether it was because he was preoccupied or couldn't look him in the eye, Butch had no idea.   _"Well,"_ he'd sighed, drying his hands on a stained rag, _"he survived the surgery, which is something that I didn't expect.  But as for his recovery... we'll know more when he wakes up."_

It had remained unspoken, but Butch had heard the truth nevertheless:

_('IF he wakes up.')_

Now, it had been nearly two days since the operation and Butch wasn't sure that Sundance was ever going to open his eyes.  He hadn't moved at all, not even a twitch, and more than once, Butch had been _certain_  that he'd stopped breathing.  However, when Doc Mitchell had checked him, his chest rose and fell—weakly, but it was better than nothing.  

And so he waited, pulling up a chair next to the bed and keeping a constant vigil over his friend.  The Doc sat with him for a couple hours, but then excused himself to find something to eat, telling Butch to call him if he needed anything.  That left him alone, save for the occasional visit from News and Harvey, who felt partly responsible for the whole ordeal.  It was just as well; none of them had anything positive to contribute anyways.  

As night blanketed the land in a thick darkness, Butch found himself growing more and more restless with each passing minute.  He stood and paced around the room, wringing his hands together nervously in front of him and threw a couple of anxious looks over at the Kid, who still remained motionless, like he was already dead.  Eventually, Butch's frantic pacing brought him back to his chair and he sat down, unsure of what to do.  

For the first time in his life, he was sincerely afraid.  He'd never felt fear like this before, never come this close to losing someone he cared about.  If he was honest, Sundance was probably the _only_  person he truly cared for, if he excluded Etta, who was like a sister to him.  Butch would give anything to trade places with the Kid, to make it so that it was _him_  lying on the bed, broken and bleeding and dying.  He would sell his soul to the devil, kill himself, _anything,_ just so that Sundance would be okay.  

"...You gotta wake up, Kid," he murmured, tiredly dropping his head into his hands.  "You gotta."

But there was no response, nothing that would signify that he'd been heard.  Drawing in a shaky breath, Butch looked up at the ceiling—as if the answer to some unspoken question lay in the heavens—and futilely tried to blink away the tears that suddenly clouded his vision.  Despite his best efforts, a couple escaped and ran down his face and he wiped them away with a flick of his wrist, cursing the world, the men that had done this, and even himself for not going with Sundance into town.  He should've been there, should've done something— _anything_ —to prevent this from happening.  But no.  Instead, he'd chosen to remain behind—

( _the one God damned time he had!)_

_—_ and left his friend to fend for himself.  This was his fault.  All of it.  If he'd just been there—

_(you could have stopped this)_

—he could have saved him, taken the bullets for him.  He could have pushed him out of the way or seen the men coming or killed them before they had a chance to attack or—

_(It's YOUR fault he's like this!)_

—or hell, if he'd even _thought_  about it before Sundance left, he could have realized that the law had been relatively quiet for a while and was likely planning something big.  All of this could have been avoided—

_(if you'd only told him not to go...)_

—if he'd said two words.  That was it: just two.  Two measly words could have changed fate like the flip of a coin, but Butch had bet on the wrong side.  It doesn't take much to alter destiny: a different horse, a different gun, a different time.  And yet it remained a tricky subject—destiny, that is.  He'd never actually given it much thought, hadn't cared to.  Despite the fact that he was considered a 'thinker,' he didn't like to ponder certain subjects, for they were sensitive, irritating, difficult.  Fate was one of them.  

But now, he thought about it willingly, forlornly.  Did it really matter?  Any of it?  Did it matter what path you guided the horse down when they all led to the same river?  Did it matter what the journey was when the destination was finalized?  Could he have really altered the outcome of the horrid situation at hand?

The answer was yes: he could have.  He could have if he'd said those two. simple. words:    

"Don't go," he whispered aloud, looking back down at Sundance and taking his limp hand in his own.  "Please, Kid." 

His face twisted and he buried it into mattress, wrapping his free arm around his head as if he could shelter himself from the guilt, the fear, the _pain_.  

"Don't go," he begged again, his voice muffled by the mattress.  Quiet sobs shook his shoulders like earthquakes.  "Oh, God, Kid, please don't go."

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his weeping and the tic-tic-ticking of the small clock on the wall.  For a moment, Butch thought that everything—his life, his mind, his emotions—was about to crumble like a rockslide.  For a moment, one fleeting moment, he feared that all of his pleading was in vain.  

But it wasn't.  It wasn't because he could feel a slight, weak pressure on his right hand and hear a small, pained groan.  

Snapping his head up, Butch felt his red-rimmed eyes widen as they found Sundance's own open and just barely alert.  Butch immediately called for Doc Mitchell and then directed all of his attention to his friend, tugging his hand free to run it through his hair.  

"Easy, easy," he exclaimed as the Kid tried to haul himself into a sitting position.  He placed a gentle hand on his chest, pushing him back down. "Don't get up so fast."

Slowly, Sundance nodded and sank further into the bed, his face pale and strained.  His eyes flicked around the room, absorbing every little detail like a sponge, and, when he appeared satisfied, he turned them on to Butch.  

"...H'long...?" He slurred, voice thick with pain.  He seemed irritated that he could barely manage a coherent sentence, but Butch had never been more glad to hear someone speak.  

"'Bout two days," he responded, barely managing to keep his tone light and almost cheery.  No sense in letting him know how close he'd cut it just yet.  

"...Who...?"

Butch frowned.  "Who fixed ya, or who shot ya?"

"...Both..."

The corners of the older man's mouth twitched upward, albeit uneasily.  "Doc Mitchell saved your sorry ass, but as for who fired the shots... I can't say I know.  Best guess would be a local posse." 

The Kid took the information almost indifferently, but then averted his gaze to the ceiling, signaling that the next question was troublesome: "...H'bad...?"

It was pointless to avoid answering; Sundance was nothing if not persistent.  Yet at the same time, Butch wasn't sure if it was a good idea to openly tell him the truth while he was still in a relatively unstable condition.  

"Better let Doc Mitchell answer that," he finally settled, careful to keep his voice nonchalant.  "I'm not too good with that medical shit."

They both knew that was a lie. 

"...How...bad...?" The Kid repeated, stronger this time, but another voice beat Butch to replying:

"You fractured both femurs and tibias in two places, sustained multiple bullet wounds to your legs, slashed your upper body pretty good when you fell off your horse, and took a rather solid whack in the head from one of its hooves." Doc Mitchell's tone wasn't cold, just matter-of-fact.  "In all honesty, you're lucky to be alive, Son."

Butch shot the doctor a glare, internally cursing him for his bluntness, and he shrugged with a chuckle.  

"No sense in sugarcoatin' it, Mister Cassidy."

After examining Sundance again for nearly twenty minutes, Mitchell stated that he was out of danger, but that they should watch for signs of infection and call him if they needed anything else.  With that, he gathered his supplies and started the short journey back to the farmer he'd abandoned when News had gotten him, tipping his hat to the two outlaws in passing.  When he disappeared from sight, Butch felt like he could truly relax, now that he knew for certain that his friend was going to be alright.  Granted, he had a long road of recovery ahead of him, but that was a small price to pay for his life.  

He leaned back in the chair and yawned, more exhausted than he'd been in a long time.  He hadn't slept at all since Sundance got hurt and it was starting to catch up to him to the point where he had to fight to keep his eyes open.  The Kid had fallen asleep almost as soon as Doc Mitchell left and was finally resting easily, much to Butch's relief.  He thought about heading outside to find a place to sleep, but then decided that the chair was just as comfortable as the floor and tilted his head back, immediately slipping into the land of dreams.  

It was finally over.  


	2. Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Butch and Sundance jump off the cliff, Sundance nearly drowns in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that CPR wasn't invented until the mid 1900s, but this story is AU, so please bear with me. Thanks!

Butch Cassidy wasn't the type of guy to panic.

Sure, he had his moments, moments when it seemed that the world was going to cave in on itself and destroy life as he and everyone else knew it.  Of course, that type of crippling anxiety was rare and usually not even necessary in the first place; he could count on one hand how many times he and the rest of the gang had had a close call; he was a meticulous planner—down to the most minute detail—and he didn't like it when things went awry.  That was why he always had a plan B... and C and, on some occasions, D.  The current situation, however, was completely new; he wasn't used to running out of ideas.  

So that's why when his mind screamed _'j_ _ump'_  he automatically went with it.

It never even _occurred_ to him that the Kid couldn't swim, not until he bluntly and irritably stated it.  Butch had laughed, sure, but he could only guess that that was his way of covering up the unease that rested in his mind; Sundance could damn well drown—they both could—and all of their efforts would be in vain.  And yet it was either jump—and consequently swim—or die by the hands of the posse.  Butch didn't feel like ending his life anytime soon and apparently the Kid didn't either, for they both leapt off the edge of the cliff, Sundance screaming the entire way down.  

The water was ice cold when they hit it and it chilled Butch to the bone, so much, in fact, that it nearly knocked the breath clear from his lungs.  Thankfully, he resurfaced within a matter of seconds and frantically looked around for the Kid, who was nowhere in sight.  He didn't have much time to panic, for the current soon pulled him back under as he was swept through countless rapids.  Rocks jabbed at him from all sides while he slid over a few small waterfalls, earning himself new cuts and bruises to go along with ones he already had, and he only had mere fractions of a second to gasp in as much air as he could before he went under again.  He was going to die if this didn't ease up soon, was going to inhale water instead of oxygen one of the times he tried to surface.  He could see the headlines now

_(Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid Drown While Trying to Escape the Law)_

and they weren't pretty.  He could see Etta and Ray reading their papers and shaking their heads, pity and remorse written on their faces.  He could see his own haphazardly dug grave with its headstone all carved and ready and waiting for his body to arrive fresh from the morgue...

But none of that would happen.  None of it would happen because he could feel the current lessening in strength, allowing him to swim with hardly any problem.  When his head broke the surface of the water, he gasped in a deep breath and immediately began searching for Sundance, whom he couldn't see a trace of.  Feeling his heart rapidly beating in his chest, Butch dove back under, struggling to get his bearings whilst being pummeled by the weakening current.  It was difficult, but he finally managed to grasp a good understanding of where he was.  

The river widened considerably from where they'd jumped and could almost be considered a small lake or pond at this point.  He was currently in the center of it and couldn't tell where the bottom was (though, if he were to guess, he supposed that it was at least a good fifteen or twenty feet deeper).  He didn't see the Kid—the water was horribly murky—and was forced to resurface a few moments later.  

"Sundance?!" He called, hoping that he could answer and let him know where he was.  

But there was no response, nothing to signal that he'd been heard, and with another breath, he went under again, deeper this time.  The clarity was still terrible, albeit slightly better, and he could just barely make out a shape sinking fast in the water.  He swam toward it as quickly as he could and felt his heart skip a beat when he recognized that it was in fact Sundance.  There were no bubbles streaming from his mouth, nothing that would signify that he still had air in his lungs, and that worried Butch beyond consolation.  Wrapping one arm tightly around the Kid's middle, he began to haul him to the surface, praying that once he got him above the water, he would breathe.  

It seemed to take forever, but he finally managed to get them both to the surface.  To Butch's horror, Sundance still didn't take a breath and he swam over to the riverbank, dragging the Kid out of the water as soon as he reached it.  Sundance remained completely limp in his hold, unresponsive to the change in atmosphere.  

"Kid!" Butch exclaimed, lightly slapping his face in an effort to get a reaction.  "Come on, wake up!"

No response.  

He still wasn't breathing and, as Butch lowered his head to his chest to listen for a heartbeat, he found that he couldn't hear one.

"Oh Jesus," he whispered, pulling back.  Terror raced through his veins as he looked at Sundance's still chest.  "Jesus, please no!"

But now wasn't the time for denial; if the Kid was going to make it, Butch was going to have to act quickly and efficiently.  He could dimly remember reading one of Doc Mitchell's old medical books back when he'd been in his office for one reason or another and it had mentioned something about what to do when someone was drowning.  Although he couldn't recall the exact details, he supposed that as long as he got the general idea, it would work.  Thirty chest compressions, two breaths.  He could do this.  

Placing his hands above Sundance's heart, Butch pressed down as hard as he dared, not wanting to accidentally break something in the process.  When he reached thirty, he tilted the Kid's head back and blew air into his lungs, hoping that he would start breathing.  He waited. 

There was no response.

How long had it been since Sundance had had air?  How long was too long?  Butch wasn't certain, but he knew that he needed to get him breathing and do it _fast._ Thirty more compressions, two more breaths.  

Nothing.

"Come on!" He shouted, feeling tears beginning to sting his eyes.  He began the compressions again, harder this time, each one fueled by fear.  "Wake up!"        

Butch Cassidy wasn't the type of guy to panic, but this situation was obliterating all traces of normalcy that existed in the world.  And yet all he could do was repeat the process to revive the Kid, even though it was beginning to appear futile, and hope that he would pull through.  So thirty more compressions and two more breaths.  

And still no response.

The tears were flowing freely down his face like rivers now as he continued the process; thirty compressions and two breaths and—

_—please, not Sundance—_

nothing.  Thirty compressions, two breaths and—

_—not the Kid, he couldn't lose the Kid, please God, don't let this happen—_

nothing.  

"No," he choked, still pushing down on Sundance's chest.  "Come on, Kid, breathe!"

And then, as if on cue, he began to uncontrollably cough up water, turning his head to the side to make it easier.  Butch silently thanked whatever god—or being or whatever—was listening and quickly wiped his eyes, erasing the fear and sorrow from them.  Sundance, having expelled all of the liquid from his lungs, gasped in deep breaths of air for a few seconds before looking up at Butch, his gaze cloudy and confused.  

"What...?" He rasped and the older of the two felt a relieved smile spread across his face.  

"I gotta tell you, Kid: the second we're out of this mess, you're learning how to swim."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long guys! Things have been crazy this past month. Thank you all for the support you've shown this story. It really means a lot to me and I'm glad that you enjoy it!
> 
> (oh and the Meeting of Opposites is on its way to becoming an actual book, not a fanfiction. If you want, I can post some of it on Wattpad as soon as my friend is done designing the cover image)


	3. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (for anon): 'Butch shoots Sundance in a mercy killing.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically an AU of the ending. WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS

They were out there: lawmen and other authorities hungry for blood and action. Not that Butch could blame them entirely; they were just doing their jobs, after all, were just performing their duty down to the letter. He could see them now—clearly, like looking down into a river or lake and watching all of the fish swim by—and knew that he and Sundance weren't going to last long as exposed as they were. The lawmen knew it as well, for their firing rate increased, forcing the two outlaws further into cover. The bullets relentlessly hammered at the adobe wall they were hiding behind and Butch could tell that it wouldn't hold out as long as they needed it to. If they were going to survive this shootout—which, if he was honest, was looking more and more like an unreasonable outcome—they needed a better defense.

After a quick glance at Sundance to make sure that he was alright (no wounds, no sign that he was in trouble; he was good), Butch hurriedly looked around at the surrounding area for decent cover, or better yet, an escape route. Of the latter, he found none, but a saloon to their left seemed like it would prove useful enough if they could get to it. Another look told him that there were at least five gunmen between them and their possible safe haven, all of whom appeared ready to kill as soon as they got a clear shot. Moving at all was a risky necessity, but it was one that they would have to chance, and with a brief hand signal, Butch motioned for Sundance to follow him.

The first few steps were the hardest, what with their practically palpable fear, but the going got easier after that. The Kid provided most of their covering fire (Butch still kind of objected to any sort of violence, though he let Sundance believe that it was his terrible aim that kept him from participating) and they were almost in the saloon—Butch actually had one foot inside—when it happened. The shot sounded no different than any other, but the noise it made when it hit its mark was enough to alert him that something was wrong. Silently dreading what he'd find, he turned around and blanched as he caught sight of Sundance's wide, pained eyes. He was on the ground in seconds—they both were, one struggling to help and the other to stay conscious—as bullets showered around them like rain.

" _Sundance!_ " Butch shouted as he finally reached him. " _God damn it!_ " He grabbed him under the arms and began to drag him into cover, noting with horror how he didn't even have the strength to assist him. "Come on, help me!"

The most the Kid could manage was a strangled cry, leaving Butch to hurriedly pull him into the saloon by himself. Once they were safely inside—and consequently out of firing range—he gently lay him on the floor so that he could assess the damage.

"Move your hands, Kid," he murmured softly, barely managing to keep his voice from wavering, and Sundance weakly complied, shaking badly.

When he saw just how bad it was, Butch didn't know what to do at first. The bullet had torn a deep hole in the Kid's chest, yet not deep enough to provide an exit wound, and judging by his rattling, labored breathing, Butch was almost certain that it had punctured a lung. As Sundance stared up at him with a frightened gaze that made him look so much younger than he really was, Butch snapped out of his stupor and immediately shrugged out of his jacket so he could use it to staunch the bleeding.

"Easy, Kid," he soothed when the younger man cried out and thrashed against the pressure Butch was putting on the wound. Struggling to keep him still, he gently cupped his face with his free hand and held him down with the other. "You're doing great. You just gotta calm down a little, okay?"

Blood bubbled past Sundance's lips as he tried to speak, but he listened and stopped fighting Butch's hold. The older of the two smiled thinly before carefully peeling back the jacket to check the bleeding, the material already soaked with crimson. Bright blood was still gushing from the wound at an alarmingly fast rate and he immediately covered it again, praying to whatever God was out there that the Kid would pull through.

"It's getting better," he lied in a futile attempt to calm the younger man. "Once the bleeding stops, we'll get out of here, okay?"

"'Kay," Sundance echoed, barely able to get the word out around the blood pooling in his lungs. "'Kay."

He turned his head to the side and coughed, spraying crimson all over the floor. His eyes widened when he caught sight of it and hysteria began to set in, causing him to cough more and more until his shirt, the ground, his lips, everything was covered in blood. His hand shot out and grasped Butch's arm, as if begging him to do something— _anything_ —that would help and the older man hauled him into a sitting position, hoping that it would allow him to breathe easier.

"I got ya, Kid," Butch reassured, wrapping his arms tightly around him. "I got ya. You're okay."

He leaned against the wall behind him, cradling Sundance in his hold, and gently carded his fingers through his hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He could sense that he wasn't going to last much longer, could sense that his friend was dying, and the thought alone brought tears to his eyes. He was trying so hard to stay strong, to pretend that everything was going to work out alright—for Sundance's sake as much as his own—even though he knew that it was only a matter of time.

"...Butch...?"

Blinking, the older of the two looked down and carefully brushed the hair from the Kid's eyes. "Yeah?"

Sundance's gaze was firmly fixed on the revolver that lay forgotten on the floor and with a shuddering breath, he managed: "...Please..."

It took Butch a few seconds to figure out what he meant, but when he did, he shook his head. "No."

He'd had to make a lot of decisions in his life, but this? This was asking too much. Slowly, he directed his attention to the gun and glared at it, as if he could will it to make Sundance change his mind, but all it did was mockingly stare back at him.

Another cough escaped the Kid's lips. "...Please," he tried again, voice thick with pain, and the older outlaw barely held back a sob.

"I can't, Kid," he choked. "I can't."

"Please."

The last statement was more of a demand than a request, one that Butch couldn't ignore. Breathing heavily, he grabbed the gun and lined it up, tears spilling out of his eyes like waterfalls as he pulled the hammer back. "It's okay, Kid," he whispered, pushing the revolver against his temple, and Sundance somehow managed a nod. "It's all gonna be okay... I promise."

He turned his face away, shut his eyes, and pulled the trigger, feeling his friend go limp in his hold. For a moment, time stopped. It was over; the only person he truly cared about was gone and Butch Cassidy was left completely alone in the world. It was an empty sensation, loneliness. It felt like a wild animal tearing at him, ripping him apart until there was nothing left but bones. As more tears leaked out, he let the gun drop to the floor, unable to hold it any longer. Shaking, he clutched Sundance close so that his head rested in the crook of his neck, repeating ' _you're okay_ ' over and over again like a mantra. He curled until his back was to the door, as if the Kid was still alive and he could protect him, and pressed his hand against the back of his head.

" _Sundance!_ " He shouted, forgetting—or denying—that he couldn't hear him. He paused for a moment, waiting, listening, and then buried his face in the Kid's hair. "Please. Please don't do this. Don't do this to me, Kid. Don't do this to me. Come on..."

And that's how the soldiers found him, holding his friend in his arms and completely unaware that they were there. For a moment, all they could do was stare, but then a single shot rang out...

...and the look of gratitude on Butch Cassidy's face was enough to chill them to the bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY GUYS!
> 
> (Thank you for the prompt, anon. Sorry that it took so long!)
> 
> (Oh and if anyone is wondering why I haven't gotten to their prompt yet, it's because I write them in the order that I get them.)


	4. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sundance gets sick.

The day had gone downhill from the moment it began.  First off, Sundance woke up with a headache that felt like someone was using his brain for target practice.  At the start, he thought it was just dehydration, but no matter how much water he drank, it wouldn't go away.  _That_ should have been a telltale sign that something was wrong, but he ignored it, instead pinning it on drinking one too many beers the night before.  God only knew how many times he'd overdone it. 

Second, the chills started around noon.  He and Butch had just finished checking out a local bank and were on their way back to Hole in the Wall when they hit.  The headache was still there as well and combined, the two nearly made him fall off his horse.  Thankfully, Butch was riding ahead of him and couldn't see the state he was in.  Sundance hated being fussed over and if it was one thing besides robbing that Butch was good at, it was fussing. 

By the time the fever and coughing started, he felt about ready to die.  He and Butch reached Hole in the Wall sometime around three in the afternoon, but it felt like they'd been riding for an eternity.  Dismounting his horse in that moment was perhaps one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, and he was grateful that he managed to complete it without collapsing.  If Butch noticed anything was wrong, he didn't say anything, and Sundance immediately staggered to one of the cabins so he could sleep for the next year. 

It actually turned out worse than staying awake.  He wasn't typically a man that remembered his dreams, but the nightmares he had that day were vivid.  Images of him and Butch dying horrible, bloody deaths in some shithole of a bar flashed through his mind like photographs.  More than once, he woke up with a scream caught in his throat—just barely managing to hold it in—and when he fell back to sleep, the nightmares only repeated themselves.  It was ridiculous, really, for him—a notorious outlaw wanted in multiple states—to be afraid of a few dreams; but _God_ , they just felt so _real_.  He could practically feel the bullets as they ripped through him one by one by one—

Enough was enough.  As he bolted awake for the umpteenth time, he realized that he couldn't deal with this illness on his own any longer.  He needed... God damn it, he needed a doctor.  Unfortunately, Doc Mitchell's practice in town was at least a couple of hours away by horseback and Sundance honestly didn't know if he could make it that far.  He felt absolutely _awful._ Of course, he knew that he could save himself some pain and just ask Butch for help, but his pride—his stupid, stupid pride—was yelling at him to keep his mouth shut.  No, he could get to town by himself.  He was sick, but he wasn't _that_ sick... right?

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Sundance attempted to stand and swayed slightly, but managed to remain upright.  His stomach lurched and he had to grip the dresser to his right to keep from falling, but at least he was on his feet.  Blood pounded in his ears—worsening his headache—and he gingerly took a step forward, barely trusting his legs to move.  They shook as he walked toward the door and by the time he reached it, he was sweating profusely.  He could only hope that Butch and the others were asleep or busy doing something—anything—else.  God forbid one of them see him in this state.  They (well, except Harvey) would probably show concern and Sundance _hated_ that almost as much as he hated being sick. 

The chilly night air caused him to shiver the second he stepped out of the cabin.  Great.  Ten seconds ago, he'd been too hot; now he was absolutely _freezing_.  Barely managing to keep his teeth from chattering, Sundance moved toward the stables, hoping that someone had had enough sense to feed and water his horse.

"The _hell_ you going at this hour?"

He froze and internally groaned at the sound of the voice behind him. Of coure— _of course—_ it belonged to Harvey. Tension rose high between him, Butch, and Sundance at the moment, mainly because Harvey appeared discontent with the local banks. Sundance knew that the burly brute would challenge Butch any time now, and shivered involuntarily. Harvey _had_ to know that Sundance would kill him if he even so much as _looked_ at his friend strangely. That was probably why he'd chosen to confront him now.

"Nowhere," Sundance replied tersely as he slowly turned around.  He knew that he must look _terrible_ , but he could only hope that Harvey would leave him alone.

"'Nowhere?'" The other outlaw smirked and took half a step toward him, to which Sundance unwittingly responded with a step back.  Honestly, he felt too sick to care about bravado.

"Out of my way, Harvey," he murmured, voice growing weaker with each word.  "I just need to—"

He saw the bigger man's eyes narrow, saw the dark glint in them, and immediately stopped talking.  Sundance could tell that he'd probably already said too much—might've even killed himself—and as he stood there shivering in the frigid air, his vision darkened around the edges.  He barely managed to watch Harvey take another step forward and struggled to stay conscious, black spots swirling in front of him.  Blood roared in his ears like a rushing river and he swayed on his feet, blinking rapidly.  

Harvey seemed not to care about his obvious discomfort—actually looked like he might _enjoy_  it.  His smirk widened into a grin as he finally realized the truth.  "Not feeling good, are you?" He questioned in a tone that was anything but concerned, standing so that he almost completely obscured Sundance's line of sight.  "You look like shit."

Alarms rang in the younger outlaw's mind as he tried to stand up straight and appear normal.  "You... would know," he hissed, barely getting the words out.  "All you gotta do is... look in a mirror."

Even so sick that he could scarcely stand, he still couldn't keep his mouth shut. 

He felt the pressure of the shove more than he felt any actual pain, not that it would hurt that bad.  What _did_  hurt was slamming into the wall of the cabin behind him and cracking his head against the woodwork.  The wind left him in one quick breath and then he was falling, though the action seemed to last forever.  He didn't quite know when he hit the ground; his eyes had shut when his skull whacked the cabin.  Something warm trickled down the back of his neck and he felt a brief flash of concern, but it went away in a hurry.  

And then there was nothing but blessed, peaceful darkness.  

.

.

.

Butch Cassidy _rarely_ lost his temper.  

As a child, his father had frequently raged about practically everything: " _The Mormon Church did this"_  and _"those damned neighbors of ours did that."_   Although he'd never lifted a hand toward his wife or his children, Maximilian Parker yelled.   _A lot._   Growing up, Butch learned that he hated verbal abuse just as much as, if not more than, physical.  He'd experienced both (the former by his father, the latter by some ill-characters from law enforcement) and vowed to _never_  inflict them upon someone else.  And for the better part of his entire life, he'd kept that promise. 

But seeing Harvey standing over an unconscious Sundance?  It was enough for something in him to snap.  

Butch raced toward the two of them, red hot wrath propelling him forward, and he collided with Harvey hard enough to knock them both to the ground.  As soon as they hit it, Butch drew back his fist and then slammed it into the burly man's face, a scream of rage escaping him almost without him knowing.  Blood burst from Harvey's mouth and nose as Butch punched him again, vision obscured by red.  He knew somewhere in the back of his mind he shouldn't be able to do this, that Harvey should have overpowered him a while ago, but couldn't bring himself to care.  The burly man may have had brute strength on his side, but Butch had sheer fury. 

_"What the hell did you do to him?!"_  He roared as his hands wrapped around Harvey's throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to keep him on the ground.   _"What the_ hell _did you do to him?!"_

The taller man's hands clawed uselessly at Butch's face, but quickly fell to his sides as the older outlaw cut off his air supply.  Butch denied him any oxygen until his skin practically turned purple, releasing his throat when it seemed that he would die if he wasn't allowed to breathe.  The second he let go, Harvey gasped in a deep breath and coughed uncontrollably, turning his head to the side.  

"I... didn't... do anything... to him!" He choked between coughs, weakly opening his eyes to glare at Butch.  "Just... pushed.  He's... sick."

Standing, Butch glowered down at the burly man and, not believing a word he said, drove his foot into the side of his head.  It snapped sideways, not hard enough to break his neck, and Harvey teetered on the edge of consciousness.  Just before he passed out, the older outlaw leaned over and whispered: "You come near him again, I'll kill you."

Sundance was still unconscious by the time Butch hurried to his side and he didn't stir when the latter knelt and placed a gentle hand on his forehead.  With a jolt of guilt, Butch realized that Harvey had told the truth: the Kid _was_  sick, if the heat radiating off him in waves was any signal.  Dried blood coated his neck from where he'd hit his head and when Butch carefully felt around the back of it, he found that the wound was still bleeding.  

"Jesus, Kid," he murmured softly and then gave him a light shake.  "Ya gotta get up.  No way in hell can I carry your sorry ass inside."

He waited, fearing that he might just have to do that, but Sundance opened his eyes a moment later.  They were cloudy and fevered, but at least he was awake.

"...Butch...?" The Kid mumbled weakly, struggling to stay conscious, and the older outlaw breathed out a relieved sigh.

"The one and only," he replied and smiled when tired blue eyes focused on him.  "Have a good nap?"

If the words even registered in his mind, Sundance didn't show it.  In all honesty, it looked like he could barely wrap his head around the fact that Butch was there with him.  He blinked, the action slow and clearly costing him energy that he didn't have, and drew in a shuddering breath.  "...Cold..," he eventually managed and tried to push himself up, only to fall without even getting an inch off the ground.

For the first time that night, Butch noticed the chill in the air and how his friend shivered badly.  "Shit," he muttered and slid an arm under Sundance's back to help him up.  "Come on.  Let's get you inside."

The Kid groaned as Butch hauled him to his feet, barely managing to stay upright even with the older outlaw supporting most of his weight.  Butch ended up half carrying, half dragging him into the cabin, where he deposited him on the rickety bed in the corner.  Despite the definite warmer atmosphere, Sundance still shook uncontrollably and the blood leaking from his head didn't slow down.  Carefully, the older outlaw draped a blanket over him and then crossed to the other side of the room in search of bandages.

"...Butch..?" The Kid sounded exhausted and... fearful?  When Butch glanced over at him, he saw that his eyes had shut again.

"Right here, Sundance," he responded, grabbing a roll of gauze and another blanket.  He walked back to the bed and sat down.  "I'm right here."

After gently treating the wound, Butch covered his friend with the other blanket and then settled down to wait.

It was going to be a hell of a long night. 


	5. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elzy Lay Returns

Out of all the people Butch never expected to see again, Elzy Lay was the one to return. He almost couldn't believe it when his old friend waltzed into Hole in the Wall like he'd never left, waltzed right back into everyone's lives. Sundance noticed him first, not like that was some big surprise: the Kid _always_ knew whenever someone came into the hideout, good or bad. He'd immediately notified Butch, who hadn't known how to initially react. In the end, he'd settled for a jovial smile that was _sure_ to ease any tension that could possibly surface.

Their reunion left something to be desired, for they hadn't parted on the best of terms, but make no mistake about it: they _were_ happy to see one another. They served as a reminder of each other's old days, if nothing else, and---good God---they had _years_ of catching up to do. So when Elzy offered a bottle of whiskey and an opportunity to chat? Butch couldn't decline. He also couldn't remember the last time he'd had enough time to sit down and have a quiet drink with someone. Such was life when leader of the Wild Bunch, when heist after heist needed planning. He made a mental note, however, to avoid that subject, for the last time they'd seen one another, _Elzy_ was the leader of the gang. 

They sat in silence for a while, casually filling their glasses with as much alcohol as they could hold and watching the sun sink over the horizon. The rest of the Wild Bunch remained at Hole in the Wall, Butch having figured that a private conversation would be best. Elzy was never the social type. Too many people made him uncomfortable, even if they were people he knew well. Butch couldn't blame him, not when he knew all too well the struggles of adjusting again to the outside world after lockup. 

The silence lasted a few moments more until Butch couldn't take it any longer and attempted to start a conversation: "Thought you had another two years."

"Good behavior." Elzy answered without looking at him. "Cut the sentence."

They both remained quiet for a couple more minutes, neither one of them knowing what to say.

"...Why're you here, Elzy?" Butch finally asked, deciding to act direct. No sense in delaying the inevitable.

Elzy waited a while before responding, apparently thinking things over. "I... I ain't exactly here for good reasons, Butch."

A chill went down his spine as he suddenly realized with sickening clarity just how _stupid_ he'd been. Agreeing to go with Elzy _alone_ without _anyone_ to back him up should things go wrong? For supposedly being one of the smartest outlaws in the West, Butch could sure be one hell of an idiot.

"So that's what this is." He glared at his old friend---someone he'd once gladly called brother---and narrowed his eyes. "You never wanted back in. You wanted the bounty."

Elzy watched him carefully---and with that same calculating gaze Butch remembered from all those years past. There wasn't much to say. He'd hit the nail right on the head, and Elzy knew it. With a heavy sigh, the bounty hunter slumped his shoulders, defeated. "You always were a sharp one."

 _Sharper than you, you backstabbing prick,_ Butch thought, but chose not to say, instead deciding on: "What'd they offer you? The Pinkerton's? Money was never your goal, not even back in the old days. So what is it? Reputation? Revenge?"

"Amnesty." Elzy's eyes were cold. "For everything. I'd get outta lockup early, get myself a clean slate... They said I'd be a free man."

_I knew all that shit about good behavior sounded too easy._

"And you _believed_ them?" Butch could feel his control over the situation slipping and shook his head. "Elzy, listen to me: you can't trust the Pinkerton's. They _know_ we're not cut out for normal livin'. There's _no such thing_ as amnesty in their eyes! Once an outlaw, _always_ an outlaw. They _live_ by that!"

Indecision briefly entered his old friend's gaze, but it was quickly replaced by blazing determination. "Maybe you're right," he stated, leveling a revolver at Butch's chest. "Or maybe you're wrong... but I gotta try. I... I can't go back to prison, Butch. I _can't._ This is my best shot---and I gotta take it."

"We can talk about this," Butch tried, even though he knew it was futile. "You don't have to do anything they say."

"I'll do you a favor," the bounty hunter murmured, readying the gun. "I'll spare you the pain of being in lockup... they said 'dead or alive.'"

A brief flash of security entered Butch's mind, security in the knowledge that, at the very least, Sundance was momentarily safe. It was quickly replaced, however, by a horrific amount of adrenaline, adrenaline that he knew he couldn't use. He shut his eyes, resigned.

But the shot never came. Another voice did instead:

"Drop the gun."

Butch's eyes flew open and his gaze found the person standing behind Elzy, holding a revolver to his head. A thousand different emotions surfaced inside of him: relief, anger, but most of all, _terror._ Terror at the fact that, although he currently had the upper hand, Sundance could lose it at any time.

 _Get out of here, Kid!_ Butch thought desperately, but his friend didn't move, didn't even flinch when Elzy spoke up:

"You shouldn't hold a gun directly to someone." He smirked at Butch. "Gives them the perfect opportunity to do _this."_

It happened too quickly for Butch to comprehend, but one minute, the revolver was in Sundance's hand, the next it lay a good ten yards away. Before Elzy could revel in his victory, however, the Kid reacted, tackling him to the ground and trying to wrestle the other weapon free. Butch leapt to his feet as Elzy squeezed off a shot, narrowly missing him and knocking his hat off his head. Then there was a roar---a deafening, furious roar---and Elzy threw Sundance to the side before aiming the revolver at him.

Butch made up his mind five seconds before the shot rang out and jumped in front of the Kid when it did. A searing pain burned his stomach as he hit the ground---

\---and then there was nothing but blessed, peaceful darkness.

.

.

.

.

When he woke, he was lying in a bed with his stomach heavily bandaged and Sundance by his side. Neither one of them said anything, each glad that the other was alive, and Butch didn't have to ask to know what had happened to Elzy.

And when the Pinkerton's got word that their plan had failed? They just about gave up the chase.


End file.
